Not like you
by planet p
Summary: Peri thinks about how the Doctor has changed, and how she, too, must change. Six/Peri, sorta.


**Not like you** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Doctor Who_ or any of its characters.

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><p>She'd often found it odd, of course - that is to say, curious - that she had stayed on with the Doctor after what had happened, after his regeneration; after everything had gone... wrong. Nevertheless, she'd made her choice, and she'd stuck with it. In honesty, she supposed she'd never really given much thought to what else she might do. If she wasn't travelling with the Doctor, what would she have done then? Right at this very moment, what might she have been doing? The idea gave her some pause for thought. Yes, what would she be doing? Certainly, she wouldn't be sitting in a library in a spaceship (sort-of-spaceship, sort-of-timeship; spacetime ship?) reading a book on Traken mythology. Thinking about it, she didn't even know where Traken was. Then, back home on Earth, there were a lot of places she'd never been to, though she'd read about them and heard about them from others, even watched films and fallen in love with their love stories, but, no, never been there; she'd never actually been there. That was somewhere she should like to go, she thought. One day, she would go to India, to Pakistan; one day, she would go to the Galapagos, to Madagascar. One day, she would go to so many places; one day, she would go somewhere without the Doctor.

Closing the volume she'd been reading, she was overtaken by a sudden wave of grief, a sudden weariness. Was there a reason she was thinking such things? A reason she was thinking of leaving the Doctor when he needed her the most? Was she a friend or just a hanger-on? One of those types who stuck around because all their "friends" were "friends with benefits" and not good friends, because they wouldn't know the meaning of "true friend" if it upped and smacked them in the face.

No, she told herself firmly, now, putting the book back on the shelf. She was the Doctor's friend; he... he was her friend. He... he was having some trouble, true enough, but he was still... someone she cared about, still someone who cared about her. No matter all of his "alien" talk, all of his "I'm not like you, Peri; not like humans" mumbo. He might have played high and mighty very well, might have donned vapid, insipid, egotistical at the blink of an eye, but, inside, there was a lot more that didn't show, a lot more that she might sometimes catch a glimpse of, inside his eyes, when he thought she wasn't looking and she thought she wasn't, either. That was always when she saw the real person inside, when she was quite merrily, thank you very much, pretending that they were so, sooo different, that she should just give up the ghost and alight. Overdone, bratty men didn't impress her much! And then, Bam!, it hit her: he was the same sweet, mixed-up man he'd been all along, poor dear. He _needed_ her. Needed someone. Left alone, he'd have had no way to check himself, no-one to act as a mirror, for when he got lost, when he was confused and in need of a friend. Everybody needed friends, everybody needed someone who cared.

He did like to pull the pompous card, but, sometimes, she just wanted to laugh so hard; sometimes, she could barely bring herself to get out some remonstrative look and slap it on her face. He was so teen angst, so I-don't-know-what's-up-so-I'll-just-make-something-up with his feelings. She suspected that he knew very well what was up, though; suspected that he didn't feel safe, at those times, so he found some way to distract himself. That that distraction frequently infuriated her, well, perhaps it would have infuriated him, too, if he'd been thinking about it, but he was too busy running, too busy trying to deny there was anything to be afraid of - not me, nope - that he didn't see it, didn't feel it. There was something he couldn't run from, however, something she knew he _really_ felt: he always felt the threat of impending loss, of impending loneliness. Covered it up, tucked it under the carpet, but she always knew when the feeling was upon him, when she should hurry over and make some joke, put an arm around him and say, "It's gonna be okay, though, isn't it, Doctor?" just to hear him say, "My dear Peri, you may not think it, but you come over as quite the pessimist. Oh, of course it'll be okay! Unless, of course, it's not. And then... well, we will see. Happiness is not always the opposite of sadness, merely the absence of... stressors, the absence of negative conflict. You're the type who isn't turned on by negative conflict, I sense. No, you're not warmed by it, as some are. Turns you cold. I should know, after all. Ah, but it'll all work itself out in the end! Yes, I'm certain of it, Peri!" Then, listening to all of that bravado, she could relax, she could let herself smile inside. _Yeah, he doesn't believe it, either, but if we're together, if he's not alone, it's gonna be okay. How can it be anything else?_

She sighed and walked to the door, heading for the console room. Was it just something she'd made up in her mind, or was it real? she wondered. Was she looking for something that no longer existed, and seeing it anyway?

Oh, how funny! Of course he had feelings! Didn't he make that clear enough, every time he opened his funny mouth, every time he ran with the shiny, new Christmas present routine? All it was was acting out. That was all. It didn't make his feelings unreal, it just made him... confused, uncomfortable, like a child who was still working out how best to convey himself, how best to make people see that he, too, was _real_! She wasn't so old that she'd forgotten what it was like to be young and uncertain, to say, "Stuff it all, eh!" and to go ahead anyway, to go out and have the best damn time you could. She remembered. She was still living it.

No, it wasn't a particular comfort, coming from someone the Doctor's age, all of a sudden, but at least he was still... alive. He was still there. No, she wasn't alone. And, what was more, she was with a friend. She could never believe him the enemy, no matter what he did. She would never believe him the enemy. He'd scared her near to death, had very nearly killed her with his bare hands, and still she didn't look at him and think, _It's just a matter of time before he turns, before it happens again, before I wind up dead._

She strolled into the console room and saw that the Doctor was busy. What exactly he was doing, she wasn't sure. She never knew, with him, if it was something important or just... something to pass the time, a sudden curiosity that had struck him. Smoothing the front of her skirt, she found a vantage point and let go of her worries. When he was like this, when he wasn't making some silly comment or acting the toff, it was easy for her to forget the trouble, to think back on all the happy times they'd had in times gone by. Once or twice, she'd even thought him slightly cute... in the way that you might think of someone you don't know very well cute, someone that you think you might like to get to know a little bit better.

If only it were that simple, she thought. If only she could walk on up to him and drop a casual "hi" and he'd reply back with a smile and an answering "hi". If only. Suppressing a sigh, she conceded to the fact that if she was ever to reach the real person inside, it sure wouldn't be during some light-hearted, joyful moment. It would be when the world was about to fall apart. Then, suddenly... she'd see it; then, suddenly, he'd just be the Doctor, just be himself. And anyone at all. And she'd be left crying alone, and he, too, would be left alone, though she'd be standing right there, by him, and he by her. She'd be crying aloud, tears running down her cheeks, he, crying inside, silent as anything on the outside, and they'd both be so alone, so, so cold. She might think, for one moment, to reach out, to try to break through, to seek out a friend, but then she'd see the frozen look in his eyes, and she'd freeze, too. And then she wouldn't reach out again. She'd keep her distance.

Mentally shaking off a shiver, she walked around the console and appeared at the Doctor's side, drawing a frown almost immediately. "What you doing?" she asked casually, knowing full well how much it annoyed him, knowing full well she _didn't_ want to know.

"Eyes, Peri! You have them. Why don't you use them? What does it _look_ like I'm doing, hmm?" Annoyed, as predicted.

"Working," she suggested.

"Working? Wor-"

She zoned out the rest of his little rant, just let herself stare into his eyes, trying, with all her might, to peer into his soul. Was it still in there? Hey, you, where you at, baby boy? Was it merely hiding away? Where was the man she'd come to love, come to care for, despite the fact that he wasn't, in fact, _human_?

She felt a lot like giggling. She put that thought away. No giggling for Perpugilliam today. But why on Earth did she feel like giggling? As though there was something the matter with her, something about her wiring gone on the fritz? Why on Earth should she feel like giggling? There was nothing particularly funny about the situation, nothing particularly-

She nodded - he was right, of course - she didn't know what he was saying, but all the same, she stepped back, out of his "personal space". That was the reason, wasn't it? She... she wanted to giggle because... She could barely bring herself to admit to it, but, damn it, she thought he was just so damn cute, sometimes. And it scared her half to death!

Now that he'd changed, now that things were different, she could own up to it, at least, to herself: she had been in love with the Doctor, in a way. Yes, she had loved him. But he'd always been... firmly unattainable, in her mind. She'd been happy to keep their relationship at just friends. But now, she wasn't sure what was going on with her. The Doctor was different... she should have been put-out, put off, but she wasn't. She stuck around, she put up with his "fits", she still dressed in countless "pretty" outfits, though he protested that they were "yuck". She didn't care what he _said_, as though she imagined that maybe he was just _talking_. Yes, it was all starting to hit home, now.

She suddenly realised that her legs were wobbly, that she didn't feel so steady. She... she wanted out of this room. Now. She couldn't be around the Doctor when she was like this... when she her head was full of My yummy little toy! thoughts. She just needed to... run!

"Peri? Whatever's the matter?"

The Doctor was acting out of character, again, acting concerned.

_Not acting_, she corrected herself silently, _he _is_ concerned. Get out, Peri. Just get out!_

"Why, child, you're pale as anything!"

He'd forgotten the TARDIS, he was coming towards her, that look of concern suddenly in his eyes, making them... dark and intense.

She stepped to the side, dodging him suddenly, and ran.

"Peri!"

She prayed he didn't follow her. If he came after her, God forbid, she was likely to get the wrong idea. _Oh, he wants to _play_!_ She was close to tears, close to nausea, but she couldn't stop running, not yet. She couldn't stop and spin about and say, easy as you please, "Oh, I'm alright. I just forgot something." If she looked into those caring, concerned eyes, she knew she was in for trouble. She couldn't trust herself.

It would pass. It would pass. She just needed... time.

Reaching her room and leaning heavily against the closed door, out of breath and breathing heavily, she admonished herself furiously. People were not toys, for darn sake! Life was not a game!

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><p>Things had not gone as planned. In fact, they'd gone extraordinarily <em>not<em>-to-plan. They were standing amongst the destroyed, the broken, the dead; she, on her feet, barely standing, barely keeping up, the Doctor, knelt on the ground, in the dirt, and not caring. The air was so dirty, so full of that _horrible_ smell, that she could have choked, that tears could have come pouring down her eyes, and they'd still have felt full of grit, her throat still would have felt obstructed. But she didn't cry, she didn't gasp for air. But she listened to the Doctor crying quietly, almost silently. He'd done it again, done something he shouldn't have, he'd made the kids believe, made himself believe, along with them, that everything would work out for the best, in the end. They were here, they were at the end. And he'd gone and broken his own heart, along with all of those dead kids'. He'd done gone and done that himself.

She was no Healer, no miracle worker. She could not raise the dead. She could do nothing, she thought. She couldn't even feel properly. She could have slapped herself about the face, just to feel something. If she'd thought it would work, she'd have done just that. But she didn't; she wasn't with it, not anymore. She was even farther gone than the Doctor; she'd been knocked right out of the world. Her feet stood here, in this dust, but her heart, her soul, was miles away, light-years away, through space and time. So she crouched down in front of the Doctor and took his hands from his face, momentarily given pause to see _real_ tears, and looked into his eyes.

"Goodness lives," she told him, breath-quiet, as the fires kept burning, the sound of crackling, consuming heat whispered on the breeze, as the smoke rose to the sky, blocking out the blueness and making it strange, instead, as the wounded, out of sight, gave up the fight, as another heart surrendered and sighed: The sky will be blue again, one day. Maybe tomorrow.

She didn't wipe away his tears, she didn't ask him not to cry, but she leaned closer, she let herself fall into him, into those red, tear-stained eyes. She pressed her thumb over the spot on his cheek that had turned a smarting, shining red, just to feel if it was hot or cold, and took it away again. She'd got his attention, she'd caught his eye. But she didn't want to look at those heartbroken eyes, she didn't want to see his hurt, the emotion she couldn't bring herself to feel, couldn't dig up from within the deep, dark depths. She didn't want to think about how let down she felt, at herself, when so many people had died, when the world had gone to ruin; she didn't want to be so Goddamn _selfish_! But she couldn't stop herself feeling it, from feeling the panic rising inside her like a suffocating cloud of poisonous gas. _What's _wrong_ with me? Why can't I feel sad, feel _bad_? Why am I so _cold_?_

She didn't give herself time to ball up her fists, to dig fingernails into flesh, to feel hot, biting anger at herself. She brought her lips to meet his and allowed herself to be swept away into another world, into someone else's world, and she could feel it, she could _really_ feel it. She wasn't cold any longer, she wasn't alone anymore - but she was, but she wasn't - she wasn't miles and miles away; she was right here. Just right here. A tear ran down a sooty cheek, but she didn't even care. She couldn't have cared less: she was an explorer of new worlds. When she didn't like something, she could just up and leave and find some other place, some place she liked better, until she didn't anymore. She was searching for that new place now, she was testing it out, seeing how she felt about it.

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><p>They'd been too late. They'd come too late. By the time they'd arrived, nobody was in any mood to listen, anymore. A time machine, and they'd come too late! Still, they'd tried, had tried to make people see. Could you just see it all, see how it is, stand back and say, "All right, I'm out of here"? Could you do that? The Doctor couldn't, always had to believe, one heart can change one other heart, and so on and so on, until every heart believed the same thing, <em>Life is worth something. Life is worth more. You might live again, but you'll still have wasted something precious. You'll still have disrespected the idea. You'll never get back again what you lost.<em> But even two hearts weren't always enough to make a difference. Even three.

People got to a point, sometimes. Set in their ways. Then, nothing could break that mould. Nothing could un-set them. Universal truths flew right by then, bounced right back off their cold, hard walls. _We are all connected, we are all precious. We all feel, we all live. We all love, and are loved._ Nothing worked, nothing sunk in. All that was left was the end, conclusion. Too bad that it still hurt, that you couldn't just stop feeling, at that point. Not how the game was played, unfortunately.

Now, they sat in some corner, back in the TARDIS, the clean, soot-free vehicle of disaster and hurt, vehicle of adventure, and, for the life of him, the Doctor didn't feel like _going_ anywhere. Peri could feel it, without him ever having to say the words. To the contrary, she was suddenly itching to see the world, to see the universe, to get away from _here_. But she stayed where she was, right where she was, in the corner with the Doctor. She let him hold her and press a kiss to her hair. She listened to him crying and she didn't grimace, she didn't put her hands up to block her ears or hum some tune from the old, Earth days. He would remember what she'd told him, any moment now, and then the words would sink in and he'd shake himself and put away his tears - nothing I haven't seen before, nothing I haven't felt before - and he'd get up and move on. They'd go some place new, find some other trouble and get caught up in that. He wouldn't hold her for very long, then, almost as if it had never happened, he'd find it so strange if she fell, that he should have to offer his hand, so strange to touch her, to connect with her that way. He'd be thinking of the time he'd tried to kill her; he wouldn't be thinking of this moment, when he'd just held her, and she'd let him, and she'd wanted to hold him back because, damn it, what else was there to do when he was like this.

Yes, life would go on. Of that, she was certain. For the moment, she reached for his hand and held onto it, turned and looked into his face. The red mark was gone. He was breathing properly now, he wasn't crying now. He met her eye and he saw her, he saw the Peri he'd made up in his mind, the person he _thought_ she was, and all she could think was, _He's slipping away from me_, and hold his hand tighter and try not to cry. Almost before she'd even known there was anything left to lose, she was losing him all over again; after today, he would go back to over-the-top, wacky, sometimes loud-mouthed, and damn annoying. He would go back to paranoid, Did you do it?, Oh, she's just a _human_!, so, so alien _alien_. He would forget that her feelings were just as valid as his, that words hurt her too, that the tone he took on her was really very insulting, at times; he'd forget that they'd once shared something, that once, they'd felt just the same thing: they'd both felt hopeless and then hopeful. And they'd felt warm.

She held back her tears because she knew it was the right thing to do, not because it was too damn _late_ to mean anything to all of those poor dead, too damn late when it wasn't their hand she was holding. She didn't need to prove anything to herself, to show the Doctor, Yes, I can cry, to make it real, to make herself feel it inside. She wasn't numb anymore, but she was cold. She was so, so cold.

The Doctor looked at her, saw her, and hummed _Red River Valley_.

And bright-eyed, she smiled softly; please don't miss me, I'm right here. I'll always be right here, if you ever need me. I'll be inside your heart. _Hearts_, she corrected herself, and laughed. She just laughed.

The Doctor didn't laugh; she hadn't expected him to. He smiled. A familiar smile that told her he was almost gone, now. Any moment now, they'd exist on separate pages, their stories unfolding alongside one another, but not together. He'd no longer be the man she'd fallen in love with, and she'd have to let him go. She wouldn't be able to speak, to call him back, to cry over him. Could you cry over someone who wasn't dead, who wasn't... bad? Who was still there, right there, still a person? He wasn't a bad person, after all; just a different person. Could she be that selfish, that blind, that stagnant? She'd have to let go, let herself move on, and him, too, though he wouldn't know her thoughts, would never guess them. Give him a chance. She'd have to move on.

If she'd ever felt it before, she felt it all the more now. She could leave him. She _could_. Perhaps she even should. But she wouldn't today. Not today. Today, she'd stay. She'd be with him, even if she wasn't with him. She wouldn't let herself dream that he might change, that she might change, that she might see something in him that she hadn't seen before, that she wasn't just seeing because she _wanted_ to. She wouldn't make-believe that she might fall in love with him again. She'd let him go, like she knew she should. She'd let herself go, she'd let life go on. And, one day soon, she'd leave him. Wish him all the best, then quietly take her leave. Then she'd try to move on with her life, as she knew he would do. As he'd always done.

He really was right. He wasn't like her, he wasn't human. He was an alien. One day, he would be young again - at least, he would appear that way - and she would be dead, a long-forgotten memory.

_My heart goes out to you, darlin'_, she thought, as they found their feet, and he helped her to hers, his hands holding hers. If ever there was a girl he fell in love with, her heart - her single, human heart - felt for her. It would be so, so hard. It would always hurt, even when it wasn't meant to, even when it didn't only. And the hurt, the heartache, the worry would take its toll. Would wear on their relationship, would make her wonder, Were they really meant to be? Should she give up? She would start to question if she was good enough, if she _was_ enough. What does he see in me? I'm not like him. One day, I'll die, and he'll be alone; he'll keep on living, maybe even fall in love again. Am I doing the right thing? Am I making the right choice? Could it be, that he's just using me?

The cycle of doubt, of redoubt, would go on and on, would never end. I love you. Do you love me? You love me. Do I love you? Can we really love one another, really? Did we just make it up, to feel better? Even if it's _real_, is it real enough? Is it worth it? Should we be doing this? Maybe you'd be better suited with someone else, and I with... with someone else, too? Yes, I love you; yes, you love me, too: but should we? But who cares what other people think, who cares about any of that, until... until something bad happens, and we're left standing thinking, _Would this have happened if we'd never...?_

Yeah, she wouldn't envy that girl, that was for sure, she thought, already brushing the back of her skirt, already readying herself to chirp, "Where to next, Doctor? Somewhere with a bit of sunshine hopefully!"


End file.
